


O That Thou Wert as My Brother, That Sucked the Breasts of My Mother

by MiriamKenneath



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Desperate Arousal, M/M, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-13 12:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18031559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/pseuds/MiriamKenneath
Summary: He is a Holy Knight of the Temple of Solomon, and he has made a solemn vow before God to defend its walls unto death.But sometimes, alas, Sir Francis does stray.





	O That Thou Wert as My Brother, That Sucked the Breasts of My Mother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mimosa-supernova (FourCatProductions)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/gifts).



He is a Holy Knight of the Temple of Solomon, and he has made a solemn vow before God to defend its walls unto death.

But sometimes, alas, Sir Francis does stray. He strays outside the Temple and its sacred grounds, strays outside the fortified walls of the ancient city of Jerusalem and wanders seemingly without purpose into the dusty, rocky hills, into the grassy, golden fields, into the fruiting olive tree groves.

Then he stops, and he waits, whether in the hills or the fields or the groves. He gets down on his knees, closes his eyes and waits. For seconds, for minutes, for hours – he does not know. He waits…for what? No, he dares not to say the name aloud, not even as a whisper, not even as a summons. Not even as a desperate plea.

Sometimes, Sir Francis waits in vain, breathless, aching, shaking with his need, with his unnatural lust. He dares not to give himself relief; no, he would not add that to his litany of transgressions. But he _will_ wait past nightfall, hope against hope, although he knows his absence from the evening mass will be noted and there will be questions later which he will struggle to answer satisfactorily.

Today, though, he has chosen the olive grove, and beneath the shade of the twisted tree branches, kneeling on ground speckled with shadow and sunlight, he does not need to wait long.

The heat comes first. That is the first thing he feels. Warmth, like the comfort of the home’s own hearth fire, sinking into his flesh, his bones. Heat, intangible, swirling like a summer breeze, rustling the locks of his hair, the fabric of his clothes, lifting them away, removing them… _exposing him_.

His nipples are peaked, and his phallus is risen, swollen to the point of pain and beyond. Everywhere is touched by this warmth, including the most private, secret, shameful parts of him. Yet it is not enough.

The heat intensifies, almost hot enough to burn, a whirlwind, and it dances over his skin like tongues of flame. The flames lick at his lips, his throat, his arms, the small of his back, his belly, his buttocks, his thighs…and more. They dance up and down the length of his cock, tantalising, so tantalising, sometimes soft as a feather, sometimes sharp as a whip crack.

Sir Francis moans, and his hips jerk, an involuntary reflex. A single, crystalline tear gathers at the tip of his phallus and drops in a glistening string down to the earth.

He is burning now, truly burning, but it is not the heat without but rather the heat within which consumes him. He writhes like a heretic tied to the stake and fed to the bonfire. He is full of shameful desire, but he is empty. Hollow. A hollow man. He needs to be filled. He needs it. He needs it! He screams.

‘Take me, demon!’

A scent, spicy and sweet, like cinnamon and honey, like incense, fills Sir Francis’s nostrils, and then it – no, _he_ – is there behind him. The warmth is solid now, wearing the flesh of a man, a man’s broad, flat chest fitted against his back, a man’s muscular, strong arms and big hands embracing his front, a man’s thin lips and facial hair tickling the sensitive skin behind his ear –

A monstrously large, hard organ probing, spreading, stretching, _penetrating_ –

‘Yeeesss,’ Sir Francis hisses, pushing back onto the penetration, trying to relax his inner muscles as his phallus weeps another tear, unchecked, and then another, and another, as he takes the demon deeper into himself, deeper, deeper, _deeper_ –

And he can’t think rationally anymore, can’t feel shame, can’t feel regret. All he can feel is pleasure of their joining, of the demon’s hot, huge organ as it – no, _he_ – begins to move.

This is no ordinary fuck, oh no, not fast, not furtive. The demon does not rush. Each slide out is a slow, agonising journey of loss, each push back in a torture of anticipation. At the apex of each stroke, Sir Francis imagines that he can feel every curve of that phallus, every delicate tracery of vein throbbing in a rhythm to match the demon’s heartbeat. He can feel the crush of pubic hair against his nether regions and the brush of the scrotum, heavy and laden with precious treasure.

Sir Francis tilts his head back, lips parted, inviting, and the demon kisses him obligingly, tongue as sweet in Sir Francis’s mouth as the phallus is down below.

The demon has teeth, too, polished and sharp, but they do not bite. They do not even try. Sometimes, kindness is crueller than brutality.

The pace of the demon’s thrusts never accelerates, never wavers. It remains steady, tireless, touching him in every place inside with each entry and withdrawal which most pleases him. He can barely remember a time that he was not maddened by his own arousal, his desperate need for completion. But it’s not enough. The demon could fuck him forever this way and it wouldn’t be enough. He is weeping, his tears leaking out from the corners of his closed eyes and falling into the dry, thirsty ground.

‘Touch me. Please,’ Sir Francis begs.

A hand grasps his phallus and begins to stroke him. Each stroke is perfectly synchronised with the demon’s thrusts – down, in, up, out – and finally, finally, _finally_ , Sir Francis succumbs to his climax, semen shooting out of him like a fountain in a Babylonian pleasure garden.

Then the demon comes too, and its – no, _his –_ demon seed fills Sir Francis with liquid like molten fire. Sir Francis imagines a red star igniting in his belly. They tremble and cling to each other like they are falling, falling, _falling_ eternally together.

‘You could come live with me in my palace,’ says the demon afterwards, whilst they are still joined in their carnal embrace. ‘I would feed you on yogurt, almonds, honey, and wine, and I would clothe you in silks and jewels, and I would seat you upon a throne of alabaster.’

‘No.’ The demon has tried to tempt Sir Francis thus before. Such luxuries meant nought to one who has taken a vow of poverty.

‘I am not what you think I am. I am no demon. I am one of God’s own creatures, the same as you.’

‘No. You are a demon.’ He refuses to believe otherwise. To believe otherwise would…it would…

‘I am Djinn, formed of the leftover fire God the Father used to forge the world. Adam, the first man, from whom you descend, was formed of the leftover dust. We are as brothers, you and I.’

‘No.’

That is the third refusal. There is a crack which breaks the silence. It is as if a heart is breaking. The demon pulls out of Sir Francis, pulls away.

For the first time since the demon’s arrival in the grove, Sir Francis opens his eyes. The demon is stood before him, beautiful, of course, a facsimile of the most perfect of men, and glassy wings, like a heat distortion, rise from its – no, _his_ – shoulders. The demon looks almost sad, taking its – no, _his_ – leave without further comment or attempt at seduction…

…even though, Sir Francis knows, this will not be the last time he seeks out the demon.

He is a Holy Knight of the Temple of Solomon, and while sometimes, alas, he does stray, Sir Francis takes pride in the fact that he always returns to uphold his vows.

So far, at least.

 

* * *

_**-fin-** _


End file.
